Cursed
by Kosmokrator
Summary: "Oh, mijo," said Papa Héctor. "I'll be here every year. As long as you remember me. And if you make sure someone else remembers me, I'll still be waiting for you in 200 years when you die." The younger Rivera took no amusement from the joke this time, thinking, "What if I don't want to wait that long to see you again?"
1. Prologue

**A/N: Hi.**

 **According to my profile, my last update was… just under three years ago. Crap. Well then, here we are.**

 **If any of you happens to know my other stories, you can thank Kelrisathefiredemoness for following one of my stories and prompting me to this untimely return.**

 **If you're mad about one of those stories not updating, fear not! (Well, fear little.) I have something written for both. I'll post soon (probably).**

 **As for this, I recently saw Coco and really loved it. I kind of wanted to do something with it. Well then again, here we are.**

 **Disclaimer 1: I do not own any of the relevant intellectual and artistic property.**

 **Disclaimer 2: I do not speak Spanish. I am not Hispanic, and neither Mexican nor Mexican-American. Just a random Western European American who likes Coco. Sorry if I mess anything up in that regard; I'm doing my best to be accurate and portray things respectfully.**

 **They use "Día de los Muertos" and "Día de Muertos" both, depending on the person, I think, but I can't remember who says which, so I'll just be using "Día de los Muertos".**

 **Often, when disambiguation is unnecessary, I'll abbreviate great-great-grandwhatever to just grandwhatever. They do something similar (e.g. "Mamá Imelda", not "Tatarabuela Imelda") and my own family experience says that when talking about great-grandparents for any length of time, we drop the great almost immediately, and we don't even use it to begin with when we add their name (e.g. always "Grandpa Sam", never "Great-Grandpa Sam"),**

 **Finally, my spellcheck doesn't like me mixing Spanish and English. I'll probably try to figure out how to make it check against both, but fair warning.**

* * *

 **§ - Prologue - §**

* * *

Miguel sang for his family, his deep red and bright gold charro suit and cheerful cantor matching the festivity of the Rivera estate around him. This was his first Día de los Muertos since his fateful reversal of the traditional purpose of the Holiday.

A year ago, he could not have even hoped to see his family around him, loving each other and celebrating each other and _singing_ with each other. And not just to see it, but to participate in it. A year ago, his family draconically opposed even the mention of music in any way other than to curse its existence and banish it from the family, decrying its alluring snare. A year ago, he thought that a family insistent on depriving him of his passion could not even be worth loving and celebrating.

In one single night, these forces bent on the destruction of the Rivera family relented and even reversed, repairing the rift that formed nearly a century prior.

And so Miguel played and sang his heart out, proclaiming his family above all else, as his family joined in. He sang loudly and confidently as he had learned to do from his great-great-grandparents.

And if it seemed for a moment that, every so often, Miguel's face intensified in a deep concentration, no one thought oddly of it. After all, he was playing and singing the first song of his own composition, not to mention moving and dancing at the same time. It would seem only natural that he might from time to time need to focus on his music.

No one save Héctor. Héctor knew Miguel for all of one day, but in that day, he came to know his great-great-grandson very well. Sure, he had spoken very little of his biographical information. Héctor had no idea how Miguel did in school, or what his favorite color was (he would put money on red, though). But Héctor knew Miguel intimately, his passion for music, his desire for belonging and a family who accepted him unconditionally. And Héctor knew that Miguel could play and sing and even dance all the while displaying no more effort than one taking a walk down the street. So Héctor was already keeping a curious eye on the boy when he politely excused himself from the festivities, vaguely alluding to some bodily function or another.

Discreetly breaking away himself, Héctor followed his grandson not to a bathroom, bedroom, kitchen, or anywhere else that might validate his excuse, but instead to the old attic wherein he used to practice guitar and laud the grandeur of Ernesto de la Cruz.

Removing his sombrero to fit through the still concealed opening, Miguel stepped inside and lit a few candles for light, revealing a face a bit paler than it ought to be. Héctor looked on as Miguel took a few deep breaths, regaining his color to some extent.

Héctor panned the room from his position behind Miguel. Only today did he learn what used to be here. Nobody in the family had known of Miguel's exploits until last Día de los Muertos, and the deceased Riveras never made it to their family that day to learn what had transpired. So it was today that Héctor heard the story of last year's affairs, notably only from the perspective of the living, a regaling that was obviously becoming a new tradition for the clan. He was pleasantly unsurprised to see every remnant of de la Cruz expunged from room, save only that which was inexplicably tied to both Ernesto and Héctor himself, such as lyrics to the stolen songs.

Héctor looked back at the thirteen-year-old in time to see him retracting his extended hands, palms toward his face.

 _What is he doing?_ Héctor though to himself.

Apparently reassured, Miguel leaned forward and blew out the candles he lit, leaving them in a thick darkness. Miguel, apparently, needed no light to navigate the small and familiar space, and Héctor was left standing to the side of the entrance, uncertain as to what he had just observed and wondering why exactly that pose seemed familiar.

Just as Miguel was passing by him to leave, it struck him.

Without thinking, Héctor called out to his great-grandson, "Miguel!?"

The red-clad boy froze briefly before his silhouette turned against the light, face sporadically illuminated by the holiday's fireworks to show him peering in Héctor's direction.

In a dreadful confirmation of his fears, Miguel spoke tentatively into the darkness, "Papá Héctor?"

* * *

 **A/N: This story won't be as — ambitious, perhaps? — as my other stories. It's not a oneshot (obviously), but the plans for the other stories are massive.**

 **Edit: I accidentally uploaded the pre-proofread version first. Sorry to the few of you who read that. Even so, feel free to let me know any mistakes I still have left in the text.**


	2. Chapter 1: Is That So Wrong?

**A/N: And here's chapter 1. Notice the last one was the Prologue. (Or the Prolog, if you read it in the first few minutes it was up. Heh.)**

 **Changed up the summary. I think this new one captures the story better.**

 **(Edit: For those of you wondering, the italicized recap at the beginning of this chapter used to be the story's summary.)**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 **§ - Chapter 1: Is That So Wrong? - §**

* * *

 _Without thinking, Héctor called out to his great-grandson, "Miguel!?"_

 _The red-clad boy froze briefly before his silhouette turned against the light, face sporadically illuminated by the holiday's fireworks to show him peering in Héctor's direction._

 _In a dreadful confirmation of his fears, Miguel spoke tentatively into the darkness, "Papá Héctor?"_

"Miguel… can you hear me?" Papá Héctor asked, fully knowing the answer.

"Sí," came Miguel's reply.

"And see me?" Papá Héctor pressed.

"Well, not right now…" he murmured, still trying to discern his predecessor's form in the shadows.

Papá Héctor stepped close to Miguel and into the illuminated entryway, allowing his relative to see him, albeit dimly.

Miguel stared, torn between his guilty shame and hopeful longing. He had missed Papá Héctor so much, believing he would never seem him again until he himself passed.

But he could tell from his papa's questioning that he realised Miguel had been seeing his departed family the whole time. Caught in a secret. Miguel could not help but think back. When his abuelita found this very room, she destroyed the guitar he had strenuously labored over, only finishing the decorations that very day. When Mamá Imelda discovered he had taken her picture off the ofrenda, she gave him the choice between a life without music and an impending death.

When Papá Héctor learned he had lied about his family, he dropped all pretense of trying to help Miguel. He tried to physically drag Miguel back to his family to receive their blessing, music prohibition notwithstanding.

Paralyzed in his evaluation, Miguel suddenly discovered a pair of knobby arms surrounding his body. He felt the characteristic warmth he had learned to expect from an embrace despite that the skeletal benefactor's appearance gave no hint of such a lifeful quality.

Miguel let his worries abate temporarily as he returned the gesture, allowing himself to feel comforted and protected by his tatarabuelo.

Soon enough, though, the issue had to be addressed. Papá Héctor inquired softly, "Why didn't you say anything, mijo? We can help you, Miguel."

"I don't want help, Papá Héctor," Miguel responded softer still.

Papá Héctor jerked in surprise. "What do you mean, you don't want help?" he exclaimed.

Miguel quickly hushed him, not wanting the rest of the dead Riveras to be alerted.

When the boy offered nothing more in response, Papá Héctor repeated, "Why don't you want help?"

Miguel merely pulled him into a hug again. Unable to stop himself, Miguel quietly dampened Papá Héctor's shoulder.

"Did you do this on purpose, mijo?" asked the older Rivera.

"No!" Miguel shouted, quieting himself quickly afterward, "No. I didn't do anything, ¡en serio!"

He continued, "I was just getting ready for Día de los Muertos when I started seeing skeletons."

"You didn't rob any graves this year, did you?" Papá Héctor jested.

"Of course not," Miguel insisted. Despite himself, Miguel found himself smiling.

"Miguel," Papá Héctor began seriously. "Why don't you want help?"

Miguel paused for a while and, gathering himself, replied, "I—I don't want to stop seeing you."

"Oh, mijo," said Papá Héctor. "I'll be here every year. As long as you remember me. And if you make sure someone else remembers me, I'll still be waiting for you in 200 years when you die."

The younger Rivera took no amusement from the joke this time, rebutting, "That's easy for you to say. You get to come and see us and hear us. At least you can know what's going on. Am I just supposed to sit there every year hoping that you made it?

"I wouldn't even know if you stopped coming!" Miguel yelled, working himself into a frenzy.

Miguel quieted himself once again, thinking, _What if I don't want to wait that long to see you again?_ He dared not voice that thought aloud.

"Miguel… you're still alive. I'm dead. This isn't how it's supposed to be. We don't know what it could mean. If you're cursed again somehow—" Papá Héctor tried to reason with his grandson, but the living boy interjected.

"You saved my life. You saved my music. You taught me about family. I just want to be able to see you, to know that you're here," Miguel pressed. "Is that so wrong?"

Miguel could see on his papa's face as he tried to answer. In one moment, he looked prepared to relent and keep silent; the next, he seemed ready to tell Miguel that, yes, it is wrong.

In between, all manner of intermediate responses flickered in and out of existence before the man finally admitted, "I don't know, mijo. I don't know. But we need to know what's going on. I won't just sit by and let something happen to you."

Miguel still felt rotten, almost hollow, from the idea of 'fixing' this 'problem'. Last year, the pressing concern of his own death kept him motivated. But now, the only reason to separate him from his family was an idea that they _should_ be separated. Miguel certainly did not feel that they should be separated.

But Miguel also knew that Papá Héctor was right, at least so far as needing to make sure that Miguel was alright. In spite of the fear crouching around every corner that he would once again be ripped away from some of his family, Miguel could not help be warmed by his papa's concern.

Miguel nodded in acquiescence, wiping his eyes dry on his sleeve. "Alright."

Papá Héctor's relief at his assent would have be no clearer if he had written it in the sky as he said, "Let's go back, then, mijo. Our family must be getting worried. I'll speak to the Imelda about this."

Miguel thanked Papá Héctor, secretly thinking that if that conversation went half as well as this one, he would count himself incredibly fortunate. As it was, he was glad to have an excuse not to be the bearer of questionable news to the intimidating matriarch.

* * *

 **A/N:** **So, we've introduced the core themes. I'm imagining somewhere around 10 chapters for this story, but we'll see. I'm not being too strict with myself.**

 **The idea behind this story is pretty simple, I think. Coco is an amazing and touching story that closed perfectly. There shouldn't be any more to tell. But we _want_ there to be more to tell. Because the ending so perfectly satisfied, and yet it left the core characters, whose relationship was carefully nurtured across the movie, permanently separated. (This is why, it seems, we have several stories where Miguel dies young and moves on to the Land of the Dead.) I imagine that, given the frustration I have with these events, the characters themselves would even more so struggle with this setting things right that feels so much like setting things wrong. This story, as I hope has been made clear, explores that.**

 **This is odd for me, but I'm letting the story mostly follow from itself. That's not to say I'm not planning ahead. It just means that I didn't have a goal in mind to reach when I started. I wanted to see these characters deal with the repercussions of the events of the movie. This is also a strategy I'm using for another story of mine (sadly not in the Coco fandom) for which I've created a few chapters and hope to publish soon.**

 **One last thing, I did proof read, but it's six thirty in the morning, and I haven't gone to bed yet. I didn't even expect to be publishing a story tonight. It just sort of happened. So if there are errors (especially big one), please tell me. I'll revise (and maybe overhaul) the content some time tomorrow, but I just really wanted to get it out. I don't want to lose the motivation I have to write right now.**

 **See you next time!**


	3. Chapter 2: Family Reunions

**A/N: It's odd how few stories there are in the Coco fandom, given how many people seem to be looking through it daily…**

 **I'm working on it. Why don't you try?**

 **I didn't find too many errors when I reviewed last night's work. Either I wasn't as sleep deprived as I thought, or I'm just once again up too late to effectively copy edit.**

 **Thanks to PhoenixWarriorFox88, Lilliane Niella, TiaBlitz, Alysia Of The Pen, QuietWriter94, rdexter1996, and ChaoticallyAwkward for following, and thanks to RandomShtScienceWhenever, katmar1994, Izi Wilson, Tsuki83, QuietWriter94, and rdexter1996 for favoriting.**

 **Edit: Apparently I didn't get emails for everyone. MagmiaFlare, Shadowvixen89, and pheobe-cole2418, also followed. Shadowvixen89 and phoebe-cole2418 favorited as well. Thanks to you guys too!**

 **Special thanks to katmar1994 for the review. I'm glad you can't wait to read more! I can't either. Sadly, though, I have to write it before I can read it. Thanks for the compliment, and I hope this doesn't disappoint.**

 **I'm publishing after six in the morning again. Apparently that's just a thing I do now. Chill out in the evening, write a bit, head for bed when that stupid, wretched sun comes and starts giving me a headache. I apologize for any resulting typos, etc.**

* * *

 **§ - Chapter 2: Family Reunions - §**

* * *

 _Papá Héctor's relief at his assent would have be no clearer if he had written it in the sky as he said, "Let's go back, then, mijo. Our family must be getting worried. I'll speak to the Imelda about this."_

 _Miguel thanked Papá Héctor, secretly thinking that if that conversation went half as well as this one, he would count himself incredibly fortunate. As it was, he was glad to have an excuse not to be the bearer of questionable news to the intimidating matriarch._

Miguel climbed down from the roof with a habitual ease. Papá Héctor performed a pencil dive. Miguel chuckled slightly and noted how unfair it was that though he had only ruffled his clothes and his abuelo had completely disassembled his entire body, it still took Miguel more work to right his appearance.

Putting on his sombrero, and straightening his clothes, Miguel did his best to appear unfazed, as though he really had gone to get a glass of water or use the restroom and not left to check if he was slowly deteriorating into the afterlife in the manifestation of a lethal curse.

At least his living family would have no way to guess what was going on. His dead family deserved to have this day of celebration as well, but the chance of that had dropped to zero the moment Papá Héctor followed him to the attic.

Miguel took a deep breath, steadying himself, and waltzed back into the midst of his gathered family, picking up his guitar and launching right into a song.

He tried not to let his gaze linger too long on any of his family from across the cempasúchil bridge as he strolled through the courtyard, not always succeeding perfectly, but at this point it would not matter if the dead noticed he could see so long as the living did not become suspicious.

He kept up the façade, although, to be honest, it was no charade. Seeing the whole, _whole_ family together truly brought him great joy. In fact, the day would probably even be bittersweet if he did not have the confirmation of their presence that his mysterious sight granted. Speaking of bittersweet…

"¿¡Qué!?" Mamá Imelda shouted in her typical domineering manner. The women of the Rivera family were a terrifying force to be sure.

Miguel flinched at the clear signal that the undisputed family head was now aware of and not particularly excited about his current situation.

"Miguel?" asked his papá. That is to say, Enrique Rivera.

 _Oops._ "It's nothing, Papá," Miguel, quickly generated an excuse. "I think I swallowed a bug."

Some of the family laughed about it, not that Miguel minded. He refrained from vocals for the moment, supposedly from the bug incident but in reality to hear what Papá Héctor and Mamá Imelda would say.

With his reaction to her cry, no one had any need to request evidence of Papá Héctor's claim. It was clear to them all that it was true.

"Is he cursed again!? What did he do this time!?" the matron interrogated.

Miguel sighed as the pair rehashed what he and Papá Héctor had already discussed and he had already thought over a dozen times before that.

Each family member floated their own suppositions and suggestions, most of which were immediately dismissible and none of which were useful. That fact of the matter was that even after last year, none of them were experts on this sort of thing. Miguel was not sure that there _were_ any experts on this. Except maybe the departments. But he could not just leave his family here for the second Día de los Muertos in a row, even if it was possible to cross over. Which of course it might not be.

Nevertheless, his family seemed to reach the same conclusions rather quickly. They were currently deciding amongst themselves (Mamá Imelda was deciding) whether they would all go or just one, and whether or not to try to bring Miguel along with them. He wanted to assert himself, ask them just to leave it alone, but Primo Abel asking about the next song kept him from making a rash decision.

It was certainly an odd sight, half of his family entering into a familiar crisis management mode while the other half celebrated completely and blissfully unaware of any trouble.

Reaching a determination, Mamá Imelda announced, "Miguel, find an excuse to come to the cemetery. If you can cross the bridge, then something must be seriously wrong. If you can't we'll cross over ourselves to ask about it and meet you back here shortly."

Decision made, Mamá Imelda marched off toward the graveyard which served as the port of entry for the spirits of the dead, her the other dead Riveras following with varying degrees of initial hesitation.

Miguel struggled to fabricate an explanation that would reasonably convince his family that it made sense for him to leave for the cemetery. Ultimately, he failed, instead opting for a simple, "Oh! I forgot about something! I'll be right back!"

He promptly set down his guitar and dashed away, not giving anyone a chance to ask any questions. He could figure out what to say on the way back. While his family was understandably surprised and a few annoyed no one was concerned enough to follow.

As he ran, he wondered if he would return in time to keep them unconcerned.

When Miguel arrived at the graveyard, his family was waiting for him. He was happy to see that they had found a place out of the way from where the many families were picnicking and celebrating.

"Mamá Coco!" Miguel finally greeted her as he had wanted to since he first saw her arrive. Though he had seen here most recently, he still in some ways missed her most.

When Miguel was very, very young, when the dementia had a weaker grip on her mind, Mamá Coco genuinely interacted a bit with her family members. Miguel had only just regained this when death stole his Mamá Coco away from him, even her Papá Héctor's music unable to undo the effects a century of life has on the body.

"Miguelito!" Mamá Coco embraced him more vigorously than her frail body could in life. After that, he made rounds to the others as one does when a group of one's family visits at the same time.

The normalcy of the situation was shattered when Mamá Imelda returned their attention to the business at hand.

"Now, let's see if you can cross the bridge," stated Mamá Imelda resolutely.

"Umm, Mamá Imelda?" Miguel started. "Where _is_ the bridge?"

* * *

 **A/N:** **My biggest complaint with Coco is the skeleton using bony fingers to play music on wine glasses at the competition. Seriously. They don't have to explain where food and drink go, talk about why Chicharrón has a bed to sleep in, or even discuss how forgetting works when memories can come and go and be remembered after their forgotten. That can all be explained away as mystical something or other. But, aside from the skulls making expressions so that they are relatable characters and not B horror movie monsters, the bones actually act like bones. They break, they don't bend; they're solid and firm. So how can that guy make a glass ring with his fingers? This bothers me immensely.**

 **I knew we would eventually escape from that one scene!**

 **Also, this. I don't demand reviews, but I do like them. Find something I spelled wrong? Have any concerns about my characterizations? Hate my guts and want me to burn slowly to death? Let me know! I'd love to hear it.**


	4. Chapter 3: And the Department Thereof

**A/N: Hi again! I changed my username. So that's a thing. Hope that doesn't throw any of you off.**

 **Thanks to Morghan-Made-Of-Kandi, LunarAquaEnby, narutolover10110, ShortyKatezey, RoseSpell60, and SideshowJazz1 for following. Thanks to Morghan-Made-Of-Kandi, narutolover10110, and SideshowJazz1 for favoriting. Apologies if I didn't get an email for your follow or favorite! You guys who do that are awesome and an encouragement.**

 **PS: Morghan, FFN thinks your username is a URL and wants to censor it. Hence I spelled it that way.**

 **Again, special thanks to my reviewers:**

 **katmar1994: I'm glad you're still happy! How's this one?**

 **Morghan-Made-Of-Kandi: I'm not entirely sure what that means, but based on context I assume it's good. Thanks, and more has arrived!**

 **Atarah Derek: Heh heh. Maybe, maybe not. But we certainly can't resolve everything that easily, can we?**

* * *

 **§ - Chapter 3: And the Department Thereof - §**

* * *

 _The normalcy of the situation was shattered when Mamá Imelda returned their attention to the business at hand._

 _"Now, let's see if you can cross the bridge," stated Mamá Imelda resolutely._

 _"Umm, Mamá Imelda?" Miguel started. "Where_ is _the bridge?"_

A brief pause elapsed before Óscar offered, "The giant, glowing, orange bridge"

"right over there," finished Felipe as Óscar pointed in the proper direction.

The family may be out of the way, but the cempasúchil bridge was hard to miss from just about anywhere in the graveyard. Miguel looked accordingly, but could apparently see no sign of the mystical pedals as he merely looked back at the twins and shrugged.

The group paused again as they considered the meaning of this new development.

"It's probably safe to say," asserted Mamá Imelda, "that you cannot cross. Go back home, Mijo. We'll come back as soon as we find out what's happening."

Miguel looked ready to protest, but Héctor gave an understanding smile, and upon seeing it, he sighed, "Alright."

Héctor felt for his nieto, but knowing this would be best, he ruffled Miguel's hair, grabbed Imelda's hand, and started for the bridge. Imelda joined in pace and the family followed suit, leaving Miguel to watch for a moment before heading back to the Rivera home.

While there were still more spirits departing than returning, the night was late enough for the Riveras not to be the only family fighting the crowd. The trip was relatively uneventful.

The gate agent Héctor had come to know somewhat well from his many attempts to cross noted, "You're back pretty early, Héctor."

"Ay, well, hopefully we'll be going back soon," the chronic Frida impersonator replied.

"Family trouble?" she asked, showing a small amount of worry.

Héctor gave a smile and kept moving, "Hopefully nothing much!"

"I hope it works out for you, Héctor!" she called out to them as the left.

Following this was the familiar awkward waiting area from which they could clearly hear the complaints and disputes, only now, as the night was more advanced, all parties invested were more frantic as they tried to work things out and the clerks seemed more frazzled and tired. But before too long, the Riveras were gathered in the head clerk's office once again, explaining the situation.

"Ah! Now this here is a situation we're very familiar with. What happened last year was unheard of, but this, not so much," explained the small man in the crowded office, papers still in stacks nearly reaching ceiling and a plate of sweets Héctor was not totally sure were not the same ones Dante slobbered on a year ago.

"Now, you of course know that often the elderly or the very sick, for example, can sense the presence of the spirits of the deceased when they visit," speaking fairly quickly, he prattled on, oblivious to the worried looks his lecture was generating. "It's only natural for those close to death to catch glimpses into the world we as spirits inhabit."

"Miguel is dying?" Imelda asked, somberly.

"¿Qué? Certainly not, señora! At least not as far as I know." the bureaucrat declared. "As I was saying… it's only natural for those close to death to catch glimpses into the world we as spirits inhabit. This sort of lucidity occasionally results from near-death experiences: barely surviving a crash, almost drowning, that sort of thing. From what I heard about last year's infamous Sunrise Spectacular, Miguel came very close to death in more ways than one."

Héctor queried, "So this is normal? Why haven't we ever heard of something like this?"

"Well, señor, I wouldn't exactly call it common," said the man as he quickly parsed through several documents. "It doesn't happen for every near-death experience, and most times it does happen, we never find out. It doesn't typically overlap with Día de los Muertos, you see. Even then, most don't have enough of an idea of their situation to even think to try to get help from this department. According to my records, we last dealt with someone living afflicted by this trauma in 1904. That said, it is a known condition. The treatment is simple: just wait. It should clear up on its own."

Victoria questioned, "It's already been year. How long should we expect this to take?"

All eyes returned to the head clerk, who paused and reviewed his papers once more before responding.

"Well, in that regard, Miguel is a bit unusual. Research into the matter suggests it rarely lasts more than a few days…" he conceded, trailing off.

"How do we know that?" Victoria pressed.

"Well, you see, it's often accompanied by dreams of the Land of the Dead. For the ordinary person, we know these dreams must be more than dreams, for the living have never seen it before. In Miguel's case, of course, there would be no reason for him see anything odd in dreaming about a place he spent an exciting and apparently traumatic night. A great deal of our knowledge comes from occasional new arrivals who tell us they've seen this place before."

"So everything's fine then? We just got back to our family continue on with our night?" asked Imelda, somewhat disbelieving.

"That's it! Let's try to keep this a simple matter, shall we? Last year was needlessly complicated, and while you are certainly the most interesting family I've ever dealt with, there are others who require assistance. Even if it takes a while, it's not going to cause any problems," he concluded.

The Rivera's remained skeptical, but the short official ushered them out of the room, requesting of the waiting room, "García family?"

The family regrouped in the main area of station and Rosita asked, "So is that it?"

"What else can we do?" Imelda asked.

Coco reminded, "We should head back to tell Miguel he's alright."

So they returned to do just that. The friendly gate agent was glad to learn that apparently everything worked out for them.

After that, the family walked in a curious silence. Héctor gathered that his relatives likely felt the same way he did, which was… hard to describe, exactly. An odd mix, to be sure. Certainly there was a strong feeling of relief. Miguel was fine. That was the best news they could have received. But the gaps in the explanation were still troubling. Ultimately, the dominant vein was a feeling of helplessness. Even if they all had some intuition that something more was happening, they could hardly even speculate what it might be, let alone what to do about it.

Héctor had an additional concern to add to the charged set of emotions. He had nothing to offer Miguel except a confirmation of his fears. He would stop seeing his family. There was nothing they could do to prevent it.

The night was dragging on, and the Riveras walked against the flow once more to reach their family for the remainder of the celebrations. When they arrived, the youngest members of the family had been put to bed already, and Rosa and Miguel were not far from being sent as well.

Miguel stared at them expectantly, but he could not ask the questions burning in his mind. Elena, however, took his intent glare at nothing as dazing out in sleepiness.

"Rosa, Miguel, it's getting very late. Time to go to bed, mijos," she declared.

Rosa complained lightly, but Miguel complied immediately, wishing his family a good night, as Héctor assured him, "We can talk in your room."

So, after leaving the courtyard and changing from his charro suit into something more appropriate for sleepwear, he sat on his bed and prompted quietly so as not to wake little Coco, "Well?"

Héctor just shrugged at him and informed, "Apparently it's not a big deal. We don't have to do anything."

Héctor hated to crush the exited look appearing on his nieto's face, but he continued, "they said it would go away on its own."

"…Oh," was all Miguel said.

He yawned slightly, and Héctor realised just how tired the boy actually looked. He was not sure if Miguel had been hiding it, if he had not been paying enough attention, or if he was just now becoming so sleepy. Héctor supposed it made sense. He had both been exerting himself and also experienced quite the emotional night.

"Lay down, mijo," Héctor instructed, gently placing a hand on Miguel's back and guiding him down. Miguel complied as Héctor pulled the covers over the boy, who compared to Héctor's triple digit age seemed nearly still an infant. He could not miss the tears slowing trickling down Miguel's face as he silently sobbed.

So Héctor did the only thing he knew how to do. He stepped out of the room, only to quickly return with a spectral copy of his old guitar in hand, and he began to play a familiar lullaby.

By the time Héctor finished his song, Miguel was already asleep. He was glad he made it through his song without crying himself, and he hoped that he provided Miguel with at least a little comfort.

"Goodnight, mijo," he whispered, ruffling Miguel's hair one more time before leaving the bedroom.

* * *

Miguel woke up laying in a hammock. The hammock was filled with miscellaneous items gathered around him in a sort of nest as if they were prized possessions. Most of it was worthless. Boxes and stacks of more such sundries littered the small hovel. One wall was missing, giving Miguel a serene view of a large body of water, the moon reflecting off the wavering surface.

Miguel knew he was dreaming. He had had this dream before. He knew that if he looked down at his hands, he would see bones. Not bones covered faintly by a translucent skin. Just bones. If he looked harder, he would find the same to be true all over his body.

Just as he thought. Skeletal from his head to his toes.

He first had the nightmare only a few nights after his trip to the Land of the Dead. He had understandably panicked. He thought he had died. He thought he had died, and no one had cared. His family was already forgetting he had ever existed, and that was why he was here.

That first time, he sat quivering in the hammock, wishing he was anywhere but in that exact spot, yet paralyzed in terror, unable to move.

Later times, he had begun to explore the small home just a bit. It was just as he remembered it, except that someone seemed to have collected the small glasses.

The dream culminated the same way every time. At first it was a few seconds. It had gradually been getting longer. Most recently, it was up to a few minutes. The first time, it panicked him so badly that he was surprised his heart did not end up stopping in his sleep.

An unforgettable orange creeps along the creases and ridges on his exposed bones, and he collapses on the spot, unable to move as his body dissolves into golden dust and vision fades.

This always happened. Then he would always wake up in his bed, sweaty and tired, but otherwise fine.

Miguel climbed out of the hammock. It may be a dream, but it felt very wrong to be there. He estimated that he probably had around five minutes to wait before he gasped awake in his room, so he decided to try something.

He looked around until he found a particular box he had seen before. It was full of mismatched silverware. Using the cutlery, Miguel scratched a simple message on the floor.

'¡Hola!'

He thought about what else he might do to pass the time, but an expected warm feeling began to fill his bones, and he collapsed on the floor and disappeared.

* * *

 **A/N:** **Same thing about the proof reading. I updated at a stupid time again.**

 **I can't really think of anything else to say, so I guess just feel free to leave a review.**

 **See you next time!**

 **-Kosmokrator (f.k.a. Samswimmer)**


	5. Chapter 4: The Day After

**A/N: Hiya.**

 **You may have noticed from my comments about proofreading that only in the most twisted sense could I be considered a morning person. That shows through a little in this chapter. I have never understood how anyone has ever enjoyed mornings.**

 **Also, I'm presuming Benny and Manny are about 2 in the movie, and thus 3 now. I'm not super good at determining ages, but they look like some two-year-olds I know, so…? We know all the other youngest generation Riveras' ages, and the precise ages of the adults scarcely matter.**

 **Thanks to SilverDragonAzura, Donteatacowman, Willow Lark, KitoH, redhoodfan, and Taranodongirl1 for following and to Willow Lark, KitoH, Wildgodess451, redhoodfan, and Taranadongirl1 for favoriting.**

 **And for reviews!**

 **ShortyKatezey: Thanks. Same here. I really wanted there to be a good reason for it, you know. The world of Coco has a very particular sense of order to it and I don't want to just toss that out the window. I hope you enjoy!**

 **Digifan313: Dun dun dun indeed! Question – does final death count as escaping with your sanity intact? Just kidding! (Probably.) And yeah, it sucks when the doctor tells you you're fine. Because then you have to decide whether you can't trust yourself or you can't trust your doctor. And that's no fun. Especially since it's often you, not the doctor.**

 **Salujaka: Well, dumping it all on you at once would hardly get you to come back, would it? Next chapter has arrived! Thanks, and Enjoy!**

 **Donteatacowman: I'm glad you think so, and I'm glad you didn't expect it. I hadn't purposely dropped any hints for it until this chapter itself, so you'd have to be really pretty amazing to have figured it out. Originally, the dream sequence was going to start the next chapter, but I wasn't sure how quickly I'd be able to update again, and I didn't want to leave it off for a long time with just the "good news" that "everything's fine". Honestly, the lullaby was a last second addition. My plan was just "Héctor informs Miguel in his room." and this just ended up seeming like the most natural way for the interaction to go.**

 **katmar1994: Glad to hear I've still got you interested! Next chapter is here for your literary consumption! Happy reading!**

 **LunarAquaEnby: Well, I'm not saying it's not… Shack, bungalow, shed, house, place, home, flat, cheaply constructed location of (prior) habitation, whatever. Heh, no problem. Here, I found a little more Miguel for you, just read on!**

 **rdexter1996: Me too. Wait no, I know what it means. I could imagine that too. Guess we'll just have to wait and see if it'll happen, huh?**

 **Huge thanks to every one of you for the reviews.**

* * *

 **§ - Chapter 4: The Day After - §**

* * *

 _He looked around until he found a particular box he had seen before. It was full of mismatched silverware. Using the cutlery, Miguel scratched a simple message on the floor._

 _'_ _¡_ _Hola!'_

 _He thought about what else he might do to pass the time, but an expected warm feeling began to fill his bones, and he collapsed on the floor and disappeared._

Miguel was exhausted when he rose from his bed the next morning.

The dream had treated him no better than it ever did; he woke up in the middle of the night, lungs panting, heart racing. He could never to back to sleep afterward, at least not straight away. Over time, he learned that he could calm himself by finding his guitar and strumming for a while. Sometimes one of Papá Héctor's songs, sometimes something else. Sometimes just improvising whatever came to his mind or whatever came to his fingers. The soft playing and quiet humming comforted him in a way little else could. Certainly nothing else he could do alone.

But last night, Miguel could not bear to play Papá Héctor's guitar. So instead, he laid down, willing himself back to sleep.

He was not sure how long it took. It felt like hours. And it seemed that just when he finally drifted off, he was being pestered by noise and light.

Apparently, it was time to get up. Being Saturday, school was a non-issue, but that did not mean his regimented abuelita would allow him sleep in all day.

So Miguel was prodded into the waking world by his mamá, Luisa Rivera, calling his name as she opened the rooms curtains the let in the morning rays.

Miguel took a moment to briefly envy his sister who did not have to get up on her own and to bitterly despise the bright ball of fire in the sky for screaming at his eyes. Soon shortly thereafter, he begrudgingly swung his legs over the side of his bed, sitting up and rubbing his eyes aggressively.

"Buenos días, mijo," Mamá said, smiling warmly. "It's almost time for breakfast."

Miguel mumbled something that vaguely resembled, "Buenos días, Mamá," and proceeded to shuffle out of bed. He finally pried his eyes open to see her standing, baby Coco in one arm and a outfit in her free hand.

"Mamá, I'm thirteen years old. I can get my own clothes." Miguel declares.

"I know you can, mijo," she answered him without any of the contrition Miguel thought she should give.

He took the clothes and gave a pointed look.

She left the room with his sister, instructing, "Don't keep your abuelita waiting, Miguel."

"I won't, I won't," he insisted, shutting the door behind her. True to his word, he readied himself for the day promptly and made his way to the family table.

"Ay, mijo. You look so tired. If you ate more, you'd have more energy," commented Abuelita, all the while piling food on his plate.

One can only be so grumpy while eating a homecooked breakfast with your family. Or maybe that is not true, but at least today it was cheering him up.

Papá Héctor was gone forever last year too, and it was alright then. He could get through it this year, too. And it was not actually forever anyway. Just fifty to ninety years. That was all.

* * *

Héctor rose very late in the day. Of course, in the Land of the Dead, this was expected the day after Día de los Muertos. Many businesses would be closed as a huge segment of the population had been out nearly until sunrise, taking every minute they could to enjoy the presences of their living loved ones. As no one had any _need_ of food, water, or anything else really, the world could afford to simply stop for a day and recover from the revelry of the holiday. Imelda and Victoria woke earliest in the family, even they not deigning to get up until half past eleven. The rest of the family trickled into the household slowly, culminating in Héctor's arrival at nearly three.

The Riveras' night was not without its hiccups, but that was not weighing the family down. It was both Héctor and Coco's first Día de los Muertos. Héctor's had his only worry relieved as well. He had resolved to find some way to make sure that Miguel knew he had succeeded at saving him.

Mission accomplished.

Héctor thought it was probably even worth Miguel's sorrow to know that his mijo would not have to wonder for the rest of his life whether Héctor had survived to meet him on the other side.

So, all in all, even Héctor was encouraged and joyful coming off the long night despite bearing the brunt of his nieto's struggles.

Coco greeted his appearance with a huge smile, and Imelda walked over to pull him into an embrace.

"Buenos días, did you sleep well?" Imelda asked. Sensitive to the potential for some consternation, her question invited a deeper response, but did not press.

"Very, well, actually," Héctor declared cheerily, to moderate levels of surprise from the others. "But you were up a long time ago. Did you even sleep?"

Another thing for which the skeletons inhabiting the Land of the Dead have no need yet partake in greedily. True, excessive streaks without sleep, without food, without drink, would grate against the mind. An artifact of life, most likely. But a night without sleep would do no disservice to the dead.

Nevertheless, the question served its purpose, and the family returned to a serene quiet.

These still moments in the company of his relatives continued to bring Héctor immense joy. It astounded Héctor that all of these people had accepted him as family. He had secretly expected his integration into the family structure to be quite awkward. After all, many of them knew him exclusively as the deserter. But, with Imelda's blessing, the they welcomed him and incorporated him immediately, speaking volumes both to the strength and security of the Rivera family bonds and to the esteem in which they held Imelda.

Héctor knew he had put none of the work into building the family, but at the same time, it was all the product of the love he and Imelda had once and once again shared. With Miguel in the Land of the Living, promulgating their memories with fervor, Héctor knew that they would all live in death for decades to come as their family continued to grow. Eventually, Miguel would come for good, and he would tell Héctor all about his own life, his own stories. Héctor would get to know his great-great-great-great grandchildren through Miguel's stories. If he was lucky, he would even meet them in person one day.

Last night had been sad. But it promised joy to come so great and long that Héctor could barely believe it was not some fever dream from which he would wake in the middle of the road, throwing up some bad chorizo. It was no dream, though. That hope was reality.

He just hoped Miguel realised that too.

* * *

 **A/N: Did it strike anyone else as a little cruel that Chicharrón's prized guitar ends up soaking in the bottom of de la Cruz's pool?**

 **I've got to warn you guys, despite my recent frequency for updates, I do have both work and school to deal with, not to mention a few other stories I'm working on, so the rate will probably slow down over the next while. I should still update at least once a week, but I wouldn't expect this every day or two pace that I've had to continue.**

 **This is by no means a cancellation or a hiatus, just a warning in case I disappear for several days (like I did this time). Nothing's wrong, it's just how things are.**

 **Also, I'm just planning to update at sunrise from now on, because I can't write at any other time, apparently. (EDIT: Hey! It's only 3:30! That's got to be a record for me! Granted, this is two days after I wrote that. It was sunrise on that day, though. I write a lot between 5am and 8am.)**

 **One last thing. Holy crap, the thunder is loud right now! Luckily my computer plugged into a power strip plugged into a power strip, so I should be pretty surge proof. But dang, is it loud right now. (Can I say something other than dang? I don't remember what the story rating is...)**

 **Adiós!**

 **-Kosmokrator (f.k.a. Samswimmer)**


	6. Chapter 5: Ontological Persistence

**A/N: One of the reasons I only write late at night is because I always watch Coco while I'm writing. It helps me notice things at also help keep my details aligned pretty well. But writing while watching a movie requires no interruptions, and I have roommates, so… One fun result of this process is that I first saw Coco eleven days ago, and I have now seen it 23 times. So, there's that. Oddly, I've yet to have a single Coco-relate dream (that I can recall).**

 **(EDIT: the eleven days was as of when I started writing the chapter, which was almost a week ago.)**

 **Thanks to Neko249, SingingIntrovert, Azuregold, Elizabeth1432, and Vi-Violence for following and to lobalunallena, FanficFanatick, Neko249, and SingingIntrovert for favoriting.**

 **Once again, sorry if I've missed anyone. It seems like it occasionally misses an email.**

 **Thanks so much to the two reviewers. I love to hear from you and know that I'm not just talking to myself!**

 **SideshowJazz1: Yeah, there are a lot of names that don't actually come up in the movie. And TV Tropes is an excellent resource. I use it all the time. Not for writing purposes; it's just highly amusing. Good luck finding the novel. I hope I continue to live up to your expectations! I'll update, well, now I suppose, from your perspective.**

 **katmar1994: Awesome!**

* * *

 **§ - Chapter 5: Ontological Persistence - §**

* * *

 _Last night had been sad. But it promised joy to come so great and long that Héctor could barely believe it was not some fever dream from which he would wake in the middle of the road, throwing up some bad chorizo. It was no dream, though. That hope was reality._

 _He just hoped Miguel realised that too._

A week passed before Miguel had another one of those dreams. He spent a moment just looking at the moon over the ocean. At least he presumed it was an ocean. It smelled salty enough, and he certainly could not see the far shore. It was beautiful enough that Miguel wondered why only the forgotten would make their homes here.

As usual, the hammock was an uncomfortable place to stay, both physically and emotionally, so Miguel maneuvered his way out without dumping everything on to the ground, a skill he had acquired with practiced.

As usual, everything had been put back where it was before. The box of silverware was returned to its stack, and the floor was once again covered by a dusty layer. He sighed and looked around for something to take his interest.

It was not enough, apparently, for his nightmares to be so disconcerting. They had to be _boring_ , too.

He refused to use any of the instruments. It felt wrong. Not to mention a few short minutes was not really enough time to use an instrument anyway.

The dream was not short enough for his 13-year-old patience to wait through, yet not long enough to do anything interesting.

Well, there were a few things to do. Once he stuck his head in the water to see what was there. Miguel discovered a few interesting things.

For one, there were several very bright alebrijes swimming around in the depths, including one very large something pretty far down. Miguel knew alebrijes' purpose was to guide wandering spirits, and in fact the only hostile things he ever encountered in the Land of the Dead were the people themselves, but something large and foreign hovering about beneath the surface still frightened him enough to stay away from the ocean.

The other thing Miguel discovered from that experiment was that he had no need to breathe. Almost like he was a real skeleton.

In hindsight, he wondered why Ernesto de la Cruz had dived into his pool to save him. It had always been a bit odd. It was not like Miguel could not figure out how to climb out of a swimming pool. Miguel reasoned that de la Cruz just wanted to look like a hero. That made a lot less sense though, considering that the dead do not die again, at least not like that. Ernesto had not yet known that he was the 'living boy', so that did not explain it either.

Other time-passing activities included exploring the miscellanea horded in the many piles and stacks in the bungalow. Eventually, though, Miguel had inventoried everything. Not like he had charted it all, but he had a vague idea of what was there and where it was.

So, having checked 'leave a message' off his list, Miguel was officially out of ideas.

Miguel had considered leaving the domicile a few times, but… he supposed he was just afraid of what he might find. Here, it was quiet and lonely and a little desperate. But out there, who knew what he would find.

What if it was all empty like this shack? Miguel never heard any voices out there, and he was not excited to run around an abandoned waterfront shantytown. That sounded like a different kind of nightmare.

What if it was _not_ empty? What then? Just casually walk up to someone and say 'hola'? Miguel was not interested in that either.

Besides, there was always the chance that there was nothing outside at all. Dreams have a way of being like that. Maybe he would never open the door just because he was not supposed to. Given how realistic and constant this dream always was, it felt like there must be a world out there beyond the shack's front door, but he was too scared to find out.

Every time the dream got a little longer, a small fear reared up in Miguel's mind. Maybe this time it would not end. And, Miguel supposed, that might be the true reason he did not want to leave. The more real this world seemed, the more he feared that he might be here for real. That he might actually be a dead child with nobody to remember him, dreaming about a loving family he used to have.

The less Miguel did to make the dream concrete the better. He would just wait until he 'died', and then it would be over and he would be back in bed.

…

It was taking longer again tonight.

Not that he had a clock or a watch or anything (all the ones he could find in the bungalow had long since stopped), but it felt like he was approaching six minutes. It was all guesswork, of course, but it was definitely notably longer than last week's.

Miguel, unable to come up with a better option, cleared the dust off the floor to try writing a message again. It was then that he noticed, for the first time, that something looked different than before.

His message was gone, but in its place was not a blank floor. In its place, the floor was rough and differently colored.

Things were not magically back to the way there were before; someone had put it back. Someone had scraped his message off the floor!

Miguel stared in shock, trying to figure out the implications of this new development, when the room acquired a distinct orange tinge. He frantically looked for a way to use this information, but moments later he was motionless on the floor. Glowing dust flowed into his vision as his mind slowed to a halt.

* * *

Miguel shot upright in his bed with a shout, in the process waking Coco, who began to cry. He picked her up into his arms and held her as she returned to her slumber, absentmindedly humming 'Remember Me'. His mind worked overtime, just trying to process what had happened in his dream, but it turned out comforting his sister was nearly as effective at calming him down as playing music. Maybe even more. Whatever the case, by the time Coco was stirlessly dreaming, Miguel himself was ready to return to his bed.

* * *

 **A/N: The way that Miguel guides Imelda in her performance of La Llorona at de la Cruz's Sunrise Spectacular is really reminiscent of the way Héctor guides Miguel through Un Poco Loco, which I thought was cool. Of course, there's the beginning, where Miguel twirls his hands through the air much as Héctor did. Beyond that, though, she takes the same steps from initial paralysis to quick enjoyment, and Miguel motions for her to move toward him at an appropriate time, which is quite like how Héctor wiggles a finger to tell Miguel to spin. Of course, the surprise dance is a little less desirable in Imelda's case, but overall, I like the parallels.**

 **I'm thinking about posting again tonight or tomorrow. We'll see. Regardless, it shouldn't be more than a week.**

 **¡Hasta luego!**

 **-Kosmokrator (f.k.a. Samswimmer)**


	7. Chapter 6: Further Explorations Thereof

**A/N: Is this coming out the same night? That'd be something! I don't know yet, though. I typically write most of this part before I write the chapter, whereas the AN I write at the bottom I write after I write the chapter. Sort of. It's actually a much more (read: needlessly) complicated system, but that's sort of how it work.**

 **To be honest, you guys deserve this second chapter, given that I had a week to use and I still made a shorter chapter. This one is also short…**

 **Thanks to Everlily Emrys Holmes for following.**

 **There are no favorites because I rushed to post this chapter, so there's that. Actually, Everlily Emry Holmes followed about an hour before I published the last chapter (according to the email timestamp, that is), I just didn't notice until after.**

 **Thanks so much for the review, SideshowJazz1: I'm glad you're still on board, and I've got another one already!**

 **(Quick EDIT: I got another review just a few seconds after I published, so I thought I could add that here.**

 **Digifan313: Thanks for the review! It could be either. Or neither. Just saying. Maybe this chapter will clear that up for you! Or maybe not! Or neither. Just kidding. It will certainly either clear it up or it will not.)**

* * *

 **§ - Chapter 6: Further Explorations Thereof - §**

* * *

 _Miguel shot upright in his bed with a shout, in the process waking Coco, who began to cry. He picked her up into his arms and held her as she returned to her slumber, absentmindedly humming 'Remember Me'. His mind worked overtime, just trying to process what had happened in his dream, but it turned out comforting his sister was nearly as effective at calming him down as playing music. Maybe even more. Whatever the case, by the time Coco was stirlessly dreaming, Miguel himself was ready to return to his bed._

Five days had passed since his last dream.

As Miguel prepared for bed, he mentally reviewed his plan for the next time he dreamt.

 _Step 1: Poke a small hole in the hammock._

 _Step 2: Count the forks._

 _Step 3: Throw a fork in the water._

 _Step 4: Move a stack of boxes._

 _Step 5: Write a message where the stack was._

 _Step 6: Put the stack back._

 _Step 7: Take off my shirt._

 _Step 8: Hide the shirt in a box._

Miguel had been brainstorming all week to see what he could do to make a change last.

He still was not quite sure what his revelation from last week meant. A small voice suggested that there was one answer that explained everything very well, but… Miguel was not ready to consider that just yet.

Likewise, Miguel was not sure exactly what he hoped to determine with his tests. But he was excited to find out more. The nightmares had turned into a mystery, and he wanted to figure it out.

So every time Miguel had thought of another clever way to trick whoever or whatever was restoring the bungalow each time, he added it to his procedure. He took great pains to recite it often, memorizing it thoroughly. He would not have much time to put it into action once he found himself in the hammock, and he wanted to be ready.

Now normally, he would not have the dream again so quickly. In fact, he had never had the dream a week apart, like he had last time. Looking over the instances, Miguel had come to the conclusion that as they were getting longer, the dreams were also becoming more frequent.

If that trend continued, he would be back in the shack soon. His excitement had his mind racing as he laid down for bed.

Shortly after lying down, Miguel determined that Coco definitely needed a lullaby to help her sleep. Yes, that would definitely help Coco sleep.

While it would not be accurate to say that Miguel sang for her _every_ night, Coco would certainly know the words to 'Remember Me' by heart before she could actually speak them. Maybe a few other songs, too.

Miguel thought about the words as he sang them. Papá Héctor hoped the sound of a guitar would remind his precious daughter how much he loved her. For Mamá Coco it had. But for Mamá Imelda, it was the opposite. The mournful sound only emphasized what she believed Papá Héctor loved even more than them.

To take away a source of her own grief and bitterness, Mamá Imelda ripped away Mamá Coco's source of love and hope.

The only thing they all agreed on, then, was that music would always be a link to Papá Héctor.

Sufficiently distracted, Miguel thought that Coco would probably be able to sleep now, so he put his guitar down and returned to bed.

* * *

Miguel looked around. Moonlight. Salty smell. Metal corners jabbing into his ribs.

 _Yes!_ he thought.

He jumped out of the hammock, almost knocking a colander into the water. Luckily, it stopped rolling near the edge, and Miguel returned it to the hammock before beginning his list.

 _Step 1: Poke a small hole in the hammock._

He had not thought about exactly how he would do that, but there was an obvious solution, so he skipped this step for now.

 _Step 2: Count the forks._

Simple enough, but he double and triple checked. There were 17. An odd number, but not too hard to remember. He dedicated it to memory before taking one of the most misshapen.

Thinking further ahead, he decided his list was not quite in the best order, so him improvised.

 _Step 4: Move a stack of boxes._

Moving the whole stack at once proved too difficult, but taking one box at a time off the top did not take too much time, and soon the whole stack was moved.

 _Step 5: Write a message where the stack was._

He quickly used the fork to scratch the number 17 in the floor where the boxes used to be. This was the part he was most worried about, as it had taken a while to do his last message. But it was short, only three grooves in all, and it was finished relatively quickly.

 _Step 6: Put the stack back._

With the stack once again in its original position, completely concealing the new message, Miguel moved on.

 _Step 1: Poke a small hole in the hammock._

Using the fork, he returned to the first step, and then to the next one he skipped.

 _Step 3: Throw a fork in the water._

A small splash, and he checked that off the list.

 _Step 7: Take off his shirt._

He quickly removed the simple tank-top that he was always wearing in the dream. It was identical to the one he wore when he was actually in the Land of the Dead.

 _Step 8: Hide the shirt in a box._

He went to store his shirt with the flatware, but then thought better of it. Part of the point was to make the little changes hard to find. If he put two in the same place, then one might expose the other. He found a random box with space, and stuffed his shirt inside. He would have to remember that his shirt was with inside a pot in a box full of dusty dishes.

As it turned out, it had not taken as long as Miguel had feared. In fact, he still had another minute or two left.

Or three. Three minutes.

A little longer again, then.

But soon enough, the gold obliviated him.

a

* * *

This time when Miguel sat up exhausted in his bed, Miguel did not feel the need to relax himself from with music or family. The mission he had set for himself must have distracted him very well from the despair that permeated the dwelling, because he found himself tired but undisturbed. Not five minutes later, Miguel was sleeping peacefully.

* * *

 **A/N: Apparently there is some confusion with the word "obliviated". This is a real word existing independent of the Harry Potter universe. It means to wipe from existence (or in certain cases, to cease existing). Like, to send into oblivion. Although, now that I think about it, it's a little poetic that in the wizarding world it's a spell to erase memory. To obliviate Coco would obliviate Héctor. Weird, huh? (Full discloser, I have not read the Harry Potter books. I've seen the movies only once. Which is why I didn't realize there would be any confusion over the word.)**

 **Next chapter, we'll head back over to Héctor's POV to see what he's been doing these last two weeks. Probably. Nothing's set in stone.**

 **Until next week(ish)!**

 **-Kosmokrator**


	8. Chapter 7: Down to the Bones

**A/N: Hey all. I'm back again inappropriately soon. Honestly, I'm just procrastinating my schoolwork. EDIT: Well, scratch that. I wrote about three quarters of it and then left it for a week.**

 **Thanks to Graham Crackers Are Awesome, TwiDath FTW .Harmony Dash, starlight447, yukimenoko, and Doyle0915 for following and thanks to Stargazer3356, TwiDash FTW .Harmony Dash, and Doyle0915 for favoriting.**

 **Quick reminder, I haven't gotten emails for every favorite/follow, so I'm really sorry if I missed you, but I'm still thankful!**

 **And thanks a tone for the reviews, guys.**

 **Donteatacowman: I'll take that as an indirect compliment, because I wrote him. But, yeah, Miguel is pretty rash, but he's not exactly stupid. This chapter… will not answer your questions. Aren't I the worst? (Or maybe it will. I haven't written it yet.)**

 **SideshowJazz1: I doubt I will update that fast ever again. If I remember correctly, there was like two and a half hours between the last chapters, which is hardly a sustainable rate. But hey, I'm already writing again, so let's see what we can do. EDIT: Nevermind. Sorry about that.**

 **rdexter1996: Yes, well, as I said to an earlier reviewer, Miguel is certainly not stupid! And thank goodness. Writing stupid characters is agonizing. I hate thinking of solutions to problems and having to go back and wonder how I can make the character realise. Who gave you my notes? Just joking. That may or may not be what will happen. Aren't I helpful?**

 **Digifan313: Well, I'm glad you saw it eventually. It wasn't the most exciting chapter in the world, but it definitely mattered. That would be kind of funny, but no, it was a different shirt. Actually, less funny and more trippy. That would be a different story entirely. (I suppose that's a spoiler, but not really.) As I said to someone else, this chapter will likely not address your last paragraph's ponderings. Guess you'll just have to wait some more. Enjoy!**

* * *

 **§ - Chapter 7: Down to the Bones - §**

* * *

 _This time when Miguel sat up exhausted in his bed, Miguel did not feel the need to relax himself from with music or family. The mission he had set for himself must have distracted him very well from the despair that permeated the dwelling, because he found himself tired but undisturbed. Not five minutes later, Miguel was sleeping peacefully._

A year since reconciliation with his family, Héctor could still be easily recognized by any who had known him before. Of course, there were subtle changes to his appearance. His bones had whitened up a bit. His clothes were not quite so tattered. Generally, Héctor could be described as cleaner.

Perhaps the least subtle adjustment, though by no means an obvious alteration, was the pair of well-crafted shoes now adorning his historically unshod footbones.

The casual observer might think nothing of it.

A more perceptive individual could possibly notice that the boots were in fact Rivera-made. Such a person might conclude that Doña Imelda, or perhaps the Rivera family as a whole, had gifted him the shoes as show of acceptance.

Only a member of said family would know that the shoes meant even more than that.

Over the last century, a simple rule had been established, encapsulated in an equally simple phrase. A Rivera is a zapatero, hasta los huesos.

Ipso facto, Héctor Rivera…

It would be fair to say that with Héctor's arrival, the Riveras were reintroduced to their old identity in music. But their new identity as cordwainers remained fully intact as well.

As such, Héctor spent a sizable measure of his time watching his family at work in the shop. He would have been content to continue that way, but his family, not so much.

He supposed he could not blame them. After all, he had not been content to have them simply sit by while he and Imelda partook in music. As foreign as it seemed to him, the Riveras took pride in their trade, and took pride in sharing it with their loved ones.

So, they insisted on sharing it with him.

The twins were the first to introduce him to cobblery. One otherwise ordinary day, Felipe excused himself from the workspace. As the pair always worked together (just as they did everything else), Óscar insisted that he needed someone to assist him, and drafted Héctor to the position.

His first attempts were generously labeled 'lackluster' by the others, but from then on, Héctor participating was more common than the alternative.

Despite this, it was a several months before Imelda asked for him to work with her. She held his craftsmanship to rigorous standards, often throwing out imperfect productions. It took him three weeks to make a complete pair of shoes that stood up to Imelda's critical eye. After thoroughly scrutinizing them and giving her approval, Imelda presented the shoes to Héctor, declaring them his.

None of the Riveras would consider Héctor to have the skill of the rest of the family, who had trained and practiced since 1921. But the shoes Héctor wore marked him as a fully-fledged zapatero, and a fully accepted Rivera.

Héctor Rivera, a shoemaker, down to the bones.

* * *

Héctor hated going down to the district of the nearly-forgotten. He spent a very long time living in desperation there. Decade after decade brought disappointment after disappointment.

First, of course, he died.

After that, he found he wasn't on his family's ofrenda. Which meant his family didn't even know he was dead. They did not know he wanted to come home to them.

After that he started hearing his songs sung by some of the newer arrivals, yet none of them had ever heard of Héctor Rivera. Only Ernesto de la Cruz.

Then de la Cruz died. Héctor had registered with the Department of Family Reunions, and de la Cruz was on his list, meaning he should have been notified, but, though some mistake, Héctor found out the same way as everyone else: the grapevine.

At some point, he went to the Department to ask about the mix-up. It turned out there was none. Ernesto had vetoed his notification. Apparently that is something a new arrival gets to approve. Héctor could not have known. He was not on anyone's list when he died.

By this point, Héctor was sure that Imelda must know something had happened to him, after all, he left with de la Cruz. They knew his music. Yet his picture never appeared on any ofrendas.

That still didn't prepare him for Imelda's apparent veto of his list. But one day, he stumbled across a new shoe shop in the Land of the Dead and saw her there.

She wanted nothing to do with him. Not in life, not in death.

Héctor saw Imelda's family grow. Óscar a Felipe did not veto him, but when he arrived at the Department, he had been told that they were already gone. Imelda had left a message for him. He was not welcome.

Rosita, Julio, and Victoria all arrived at their own times. The same happened for Rosita and Julio as happened for the twins. Victoria vetoed him.

The best and worst of all, though, was that Coco never died. She lived on and on, outliving every last person who might remember Héctor. Each time someone he knew died, he could feel his vitality diminish.

He tried to reach out to Imelda a few times. Not in life, not in death.

Hope after hope was stripped away from Héctor as he wallowed down there in the shantytown.

The worst part about the slum, however, was that Héctor's story was everyone's story. His may have been a bit longer, perhaps a few more heartbreaks than average, but everyone there had continued to abide in unfulfilled hopes.

The nearly-forgotten stayed away from the well-remembered for because of the harsh reminders all around of what they lacked. The well-remembered stayed away from the nearly-forgotten because of the crushing, powerless desperation that formed the breath and blood of their lives.

But Héctor also could not stand to ignore the people suffering. He could not just pretend that his friends did not matter anymore now that he was remembered.

So, despite the pain, Héctor made sure to come and visit his old "familia". Probably about once a month or so. He did not keep a schedule, but whenever he it had been a while, he made his way down.

Speaking of which, Héctor had not been back to visit since before Día de los Muertos, so it was high time. He sighed as the architecture became pre-Hispanic. He did not want his friends to think he did not like to see them, or that he did it out of some sort of charity. Luckily, he had more than decades of despair. He also had decades of experience grifting and charming his way around the afterlife. Besides, he was genuinely happy to see them, so he was not faking that. He just needed to cover up the less pleasant bits.

Resolved and prepared, Héctor walked under the archway leading to the boardwalks.

* * *

 **A/N: I'm thinking of changing all my "Día de los Muertos" instances to "Día de Muertos" instead. I think the latter is older and definitely feels smoother. That'll probably happen between now and the next chapter. But I want it to be consistent, so until then, "Día de los Muertos" will continue to appear everywhere.**

 **And, a chapter all about Héctor, although not exactly like I thought I would. I didn't really talk about what Héctor's been doing the last few weeks like I said I would. Oh well, I ended up liking this better, so that's why this is here.**

 **I'm thinking we'll get some of both Héctor and Miguel next chapter. See you then!**

 **-Kosmokrator**


	9. Chapter 8: Chich's Shack

**A/N: Making up names, because Héctor only ever actually greets Tía Chelo, and nobody else's name gets spoken in the forgotten place (excluding Chich, of course).**

 **Also, updating quickly again!**

 **Thanks to siemers and LunaStarsNightWayne for following and for favoriting!**

 **Reviewers! You guys are the best!**

 **Donteatacowman: That's definitely true. The scene that discussed it took over half the chapter. I think it's really important to understanding Héctor's character (at least as I'm portraying him).**

 **Digifan313: Yeah. Sucks to be Héctor pre-movie. As for the holiday, Miguel uses "los", Héctor does not. Elena also says "Día de Muertos". I'm confident of this because about ten seconds after I read your review, she said it on screen. And then she said it again as I was typing "said it" in the previous sentence. I would keep track of who says what if I was, like, publishing this or something. But for FFN, that just seems like too much effort. So yeah, I will just pick what I like more. After hearing and writing it many times, I now prefer the one I haven't been using. Such is life.**

* * *

 **§ - Chapter 8: Chich's Shack - §**

* * *

 _Speaking of which, Héctor had not been back to visit since before Día de los Muertos, so it was high time. He sighed as the architecture became pre-Hispanic. He did not want his friends to think he did not like to see them, or that he did it out of some sort of charity. Luckily, he had more than decades of despair. He also had decades of experience grifting and charming his way around the afterlife. Besides, he was genuinely happy to see them, so he was not faking that. He just needed to cover up the less pleasant bits._

 _Resolved and prepared, Héctor walked under the archway leading to the boardwalks._

Four days later, Miguel was back in the shack.

Miguel passively noted that the time between dreams was decreasing rapidly. He took an appropriate moment to be worried before he rushed to check on his various modifications to the hut.

First things first, the hole in the hammock was still there. Whoever or whatever was resetting everything had either not noticed or did not fix it. Already Miguel had confirmed that things he did here had lasting effects.

Moving on, Miguel went to count the number of forks, and much to his excitement, there were only 16. He was certain there were 17 before. Just to make sure, he moved the stack of boxes he had moved before.

As he had come to expect, Miguel found his message undisturbed on the floor, confirming yet another thing that had persevered between his dreams. It also confirmed that there were indeed 17 forks before. He returned the stack to its proper place.

The next item on his list had been taking off his shirt. It took him until this point to realise that he had woken up without anything on his upper half. He probably should have noticed before, but in the hammock, his body was completely surrounded by junk, and in his enthusiasm he had not inspected himself as he usually did. Not to mention that his tank top did little to stop the light draft from blowing through his bones. At the thought, Miguel experienced a slight chill that he guessed was not from the cool ocean breeze.

Checking the last change, Miguel found his shirt with the pots and pans and restored it to his torso.

He briefly considered diving to see if the fork was down in the water, but looking at the murky depths, quickly decided that, given everything else, it must still be there. No need to go check.

So now Miguel knew… what exactly?

Everything he changed was still changed. All he had to do was hide it. What did that mean?

The fact the he could change things at all suggested that this shack was not just being conjured up by his mind. If it was, then it should have been the same every time. Right?

Or maybe not. Maybe it should be different. But then it would always be different, right? Or at least, his changes should always have worked.

Maybe the only changes that stayed were the ones he expected to stay. That sounded like something that might happen in a dream. But that did not explain why his message had been scratched off the floor instead of just disappearing.

Then again, he had not noticed the scratching at first. Maybe it was not even there until he looked for it. That was definitely something that could happen in a dream.

This was not really helping.

Miguel did not want to believe that he could really be here. On the other hand, supposing this to be an ordinary dream would be absurd.

Getting nowhere, Miguel tried looking at it from a different perspective.

Something was changing things between dreams. That thing was trying to put everything back the way it was. The thing did not fix things that were hard to find, like the hidden message and the hidden shirt. It also did not fix things that were hard to fix, like the hole in the hammock and the missing fork.

Whatever this thing was, it sounded like it had very human limitations. So it would probably be fair to say 'someone'. Actually, making things the way they were before also sounds like a pretty human goal, so that made sense.

If someone was changing things between, then that itself suggested two things. 1) The shack was here even when he was not. 2) Someone else could come into the shack. It might only be a matter of time before they ran into him.

Some part of Miguel held on to the fact that it might be a dream. If it was a dream, then all this logic goes out the window. Dreams could be anything. But a nagging feeling reminded him constantly that everything made sense even without brushing away inconsistencies with the dream excuse. It matched the vivid reality and lucidity that made it hard to be completely sure he was really back in bed in Santa Cecilia.

This worried Miguel in a sort of existential way. But what worried more concretely was that whoever wanted everything to stay the same in the bungalow could at any time walk in and find the boy who kept messing things up.

And he was coming more and more often.

Not only that but he was coming here longer and longer.

In fact, Miguel had lost track of time, but he was sure he had been here at least ten minutes now.

Very quickly, the dream reverted from the mysterious adventure it had recently become to the fearful nightmare it used to be as the reality of the situation, the reality of the dreams impressed itself upon him.

Who knew what would happen if he was found, but even if he was never discovered, with the growing amount of time spent here and the shrinking gaps between them, he may end up stuck here forever.

Miguel hid in the corner and watched to door, looking like an even younger child carefully eyeing the closet door for monsters.

Miguel instinctively curled up into himself, but his bones clattered together in a disturbingly familiar way. So he stood up in place, never removing his eyes from the entrance, trying for all the world to be quiet, to be ready, and to feel a little less dead.

It may have been thirty seconds later. It may have been hours. Miguel could not tell, but whatever the case, he eventually collapsed and his skeleton disintegrated.

* * *

Miguel sat up in his bed. Unlike after the last dream, Miguel was not ready to go right back to sleep. He felt safe here in his own room, but by no means calm.

Miguel played through every song that closely connected him Papá Héctor. They comforted him the most.

'Remember Me', of course. The most soothing of them all. It tied him to Papá Héctor who wrote it, Mamá Coco, as Papá Héctor wrote it for her and Miguel had come to know her fully only by awakening her mind by singing it, and to his hermanita, Coco, to whom he sang it as a lullaby much as Papá Héctor had for his own little Coco.

'La Llorona', as well. The song Mamá Imelda and Papá Héctor performed together. They ultimately reconciled during the melody, and it truly marked the restoration of the Rivera family for that reason.

'Proud Corazón', in addition. The newest song in his Repertoire. Miguel himself wrote it, and for the privileged few who both heard the song and also knew of his adventures, the song obviously demonstrated not only his love for and commitment to his family, but also acknowledged the presences of those who had passed and made a promise to them, to keep their memories alive and to one day reunite with them.

'Poco Loco', too. The cheeriest of the songs. The song that Miguel and Papá Héctor had performed together. In retrospect, Miguel counted himself extremely to have accidentally shared his first performance ever with his tatarabuelo, coincidentally also the composer of said song. 'Poco Loco' had a way of brightening his mood in different circumstances that the others.

When Miguel had softly played and sang all of these, he was still not pacified enough to sleep.

He played nothing in specific to himself for another ten minutes before finally deciding to try sleeping again. Even after all this, it felt like a long while before he fell asleep again. Nevertheless, he eventually drifted off once more.

* * *

"¡Tía Chelo, Tía Gloria! ¿Que onda?" Héctor greeted his friends. "¡Prima Licha!"

"What do we ever do down here, Primo?" Tía Chelo responded, irritably.

Turning to the other two, Héctor asked, "What's got her all worked up?"

Prima Licha supplied, "Someone's been messing with Chich's place again."

Returning his attention to Chelo, Héctor said, "You know, eventually someone else will move in there. It can't just be Chich's forever."

"That doesn't mean they have to vandalize it," Gloria inserted with annoyance.

"Vandalize?" asked Héctor.

"Sí," Licha spoke this time. "Someone etched '¡Hola!' into the floor."

Chelo jumped in again, "And using one of Chich's forks, too! Whoever it was left it all bent up on the floor when they left."

"So who is it?" inquired Héctor.

"No lo se," Prima Licha answered him. "No idea."

"They must be coming at night," informed Tía Gloria. "It's not like we're ever all gone during the day."

Héctor knew he would regret his offer before he even extended it. Even so, he proposed, "Why don't we try to catch them?"

"What, just wait around every night seeing if they come?" Tía Chelo derided.

"What, you have too much else to do, Tía?" Héctor returned her ridicule more light-heartedly. "When was the last time they were here?"

Licha answered him, "Last night."

Chelo agreed, adding "They knocked over some junk in the corner. Didn't mess with anything else as far as I can tell."

"And before that?" asked Héctor.

"They scratched the floor on Día de los Muertos," Gloria replied, "but Chelo thinks they were here last week, too."

"They came back for the fork!" Chelo exclaimed. "Why would they take the fork?"

"What do you mean?" inquired Héctor.

"One of the forks is missing! The boxes seemed shuffled around, so I check through some things. I didn't find anything else wrong, but the fork they used to mess up the floor was gone," she explained.

Héctor seemed skeptical, questioning, "How do you even know a fork was missing, let alone the same fork? Do you have an inventory or Chich's stuff?"

Tía Chelo looked annoyed. The other two seemed a bit tired out, like they had been through this before.

"No, I don't have an inventory," she responded. "Like I said, the fork was all bent up. There was no bent up fork in the box where I put it back."

That made sense, Héctor supposed. "Well, if they're really coming back that often, it shouldn't take too long to catch them, right? I need to tell Imelda that I'll be out for the night. I'll be back by sundown!" he shouted as he walked way.

* * *

 **A/N: Hey, some answers! Not the most exciting answers, but some none the less!**

 **Also, random thing I learned, Coco and Chelo have very similar roots. Chelo is short for Consuelo from title Nuestra Señora del Consuelo, Our Lady of Consolation (Mary). Coco is short for Socorro from the title María del Socorro, Mary of Relief, more or less. There's an English word Succor, but I assume most don't know what it means. It's like, help, support, relief, comfort, aid, etc.**

 **So, I actually updated quickly this time, huh? And a long chapter to boot.**

 **I'm not 100% sure I communicated everything well in Miguel's first section, but it was already getting long and I tend to be wordy as is, so I let it be. Let me know if something was unclear (although, it may have been unclear on purpose; you know me).**

 **See you next whenever!**

 **-Kosmokrator**


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